


After the Long Good-bye

by aphilologicalbatman (inabathrobe)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spanish National Team, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 14:33:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4439108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inabathrobe/pseuds/aphilologicalbatman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iker's departure from Real Madrid gives Sergio a new reason to be patriotic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Long Good-bye

They only manage to Skype once. It turns out that it is a bad idea, leaves Sergio itching to touch him, hearing and seeing him everywhere, drowning in the sense-memory of him. Instead, they text: tiny pings of data crisscrossing the Iberian peninsula. Before every match, he walks into the tunnel wearing Iker's armband, and he feels hollow and empty.

There has never been a Madrid without Iker for him.

He sends Iker a kiss emoji before each one of his games with Porto, hoping he will catch on. He gets nothing, nothing at all, for a long while until he gets the text:

_you gotta stop with the txts bb_

He can't answer, plays through a week of matches and training without texting back, till Marcelo (his vice captain, he thinks, _his_ vice captain) slaps him upside the head.

"What was that for?"

"You know," Marcelo says.

Sergio does know.

_im sry ill stop_

Silence for two days. Then, for the first time: _i miss u_

It becomes their refrain, little texts skittering across the globe as Real Madrid goes on summer tour, Iker's late night 'miss u's, the knowledge that Sergio is alone driven home with each one.

That's why he wants to go to Manchester. He wants —needs— to escape Iker's ghost.

When he's drunk, he fucks up, sends _< 3 u_ instead of something with plausible deniability, gets back a text that he reads, groggy and hungover, the next morning: _c u @ la selección_.

Sergio has never been happier to play for his country. The feeling of his kiss on Iker's cheek is like a burning brand. His world rights, something in his chest unfurls, "capi." Iker gives him the same bemused, tolerant look he always has.

"I hope you're planning on playing better for me than for Rafa."

And Sergio's body fills with heat, desire, to excel, to win, to fuck.

"You know I will. Just try not to get bored in the net."

Afterward, when they've won handily 3-0 against Slovakia, they head back to their room, ostensibly to wash up and get drinks with the team. Iker lets him get as far as taking a piss before he presses him up against a wall and shoves their mouths together. Iker's tongue is hot, and his lips taste like sweat, and Sergio curls his fingers against the back of his neck as Iker bites his lip, hard, harder than he would've done when they saw each other every day.

"We're not going down for drinks," Iker says against his lips.

"No," Sergio says, agreeing. No, they're not.

He has to manhandle Iker onto the bed in the end, unwilling to give up Sergio's lips till forced, but really, Sergio isn't going to waste their one chance to fuck rubbing off against Iker's leg while getting an ill-advised hickey that he'll have to explain in the morning and then, later, when it makes it into the gossip papers, to his girlfriend). "Get undressed," he says, rearing up and starting to strip, his body still tacky with sweat from the match, muscles in his legs trembling on the edge of exhaustion. Iker shucks off his post-match sweatpants, nothing underneath, and slithers further up onto the bed, lying across it the wrong way, calves draping off the side. Sergio has to palm his dick through his briefs and bite his sore lower lip. Fuck. "Fuck." _Nothing underneath._

"Come here."

And Sergio does, scrambling onto Iker's lap and slumping down on top of him, grinding their erections together while trying to kiss him, wet and sloppy, and Iker cursing against his lips. "Shit, shit," he says, pushing at Sergio, and Sergio doesn't care if Iker doesn't last because he wants him now, not after sucking him off and waiting through an endless refractory period, now, _now_.

"Lube?" Sergio asks.

"I'm not going to—"

"I don't give a shit. Where is it?" Presses their hips together. Come on, Iker.

"Side pocket of my duffle. — _Fuck_." Sergio scrambles for it, fingers slipping, sweaty and desperate, against the zipper, glancing up to find Iker watching, fingers curled around the base of his dick, breathing deep and slow while trying to work himself down.

"You gonna come if I touch you?" he says, uncapping the sticky bottle and squirting some on his hand. It's cold.

Iker groans, small and low. Sergio rubs it between his cheeks instead, overgenerous, and then grabs Iker's dick, positioning himself over it. Iker makes a noise like the first time, when they'd never done this before and he had no idea what was coming, and Sergio rolls his eyes and pushes down onto him. It burns a little, but he still has to fight to make his body wait, to not just push through and go for it and explain why he can't sit down tomorrow.

Iker is babbling somewhere above him, and Sergio tunes in in time to hear him say, "Fuck, Sergio, I missed you so much, all the time, baby, hated leaving you," and, no, fuck that, no, Iker doesn't getting to say that shit, and Sergio clamps a hand down over his mouth.

"Shut up."

He shoves down to make a point, bottoms out on Iker's dick, lets himself just feel it for a moment, Iker's eyes wide, knowing they don't have much time, and then drags himself up and away and sets a quick, punishing pace, nowhere near pleasurable, just the warm pain of it, Iker inside him, too thick now that Sergio is out of the habit. "Shit," he says. "Iker. Iker."

Iker's eyes are wide, pupils dilated, mouth slack under his hand, hips a slow stuttering roll against his, their paces off. He feels it more than anything, Iker shuddering under him, the warm pulse inside of him, sees the crinkling of Iker's crow's feet as his eyes flutter shut. Sergio gets a couple more in before Iker is pushing at his hip, and then he pulls off, shifting onto his left knee, so he can jack himself off while Iker lies there, half soft, catching his breath, and then comes across his stomach, possessive and predatory. Iker snorts with laughter and pulls him down on top of him.

They are sticky and disgusting, and Sergio can feel Iker's come dripping out of his ass and down the inside of his thigh. He cups Iker's face in one hand and kisses him, tender but insistent. One of Iker's hands wraps, firm and rough, around his hip, rubs little circles into the skin there, then slips into the cleft of Sergio's ass to finger his hole, sensitive and a little sore. His fingers slide through the mess of come and worse, dragging his fingers down across Sergio's ass. "We're a mess," he says.

Sergio laughs. "We've been a mess for a long time, but right now? Not so much."

Iker kisses him. It'll do.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me sulking about Seriker (and posting cute cat pix) on [Tumblr](http://aphilologicalbatman.tumblr.com/).


End file.
